


sharks and their toothless aquatic life

by kenopsia (indie)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Female Mycroft, Mentions of OT3, Multi, tsot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:32:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1418498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indie/pseuds/kenopsia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's older sister Mycroft still has time to commandeer a jet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sharks and their toothless aquatic life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kangeiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/gifts).



> Greetings from 221b con! Instead of updating WIPs like a respectable human, I decided to trawl through the kinkmeme. WIPs are coming! But first, Lady Mycroft. :)

He calls her before the ceremony. His sister is utterly intolerable, but she’s the only one he has. “Come on, Mycroft. Still time to commandeer a jet,” he says, and because of the careful way he has rationed his attention towards her since he became an adult, she is powerless to do anything but accept. He can almost hear the click of the clasp on her tastefully expensive watch, and her grotesquely impractical shoes before she rings off.

She makes it to John and Mary’s reception without a hair out of place. “An hour and a half,” Sherlock scoffs, reaching up to brush imaginary lint out of her hair, and mussing the side of it in the process. Much better.

Mycroft scowls, but does not reach up to adjust her updo. His sister is tall and imposing, with a stance like an Eton lad, and she has left her umbrella at home for the evening. In a room full of single celled organisms, Mycroft has no reason to implant the suggestion below the surface that her phallus is indeed the most powerful in the room. “One can only do so much on short notice, dear,” she says.

Sherlock looks her over: hands, shoes, collar, but she taught him everything he knows. She doesn’t show her face in public without removing any evidence of thing’s she’d rather have unseen. Sherlock pretends to pluck something from her shoulder on a hunch. “Well, we know Anthea works miracles.”

Mycroft grins, and her wide smile softens the beak of her nose when it’s genuine. “You know Anthea would never dare shed on me, but you’re right – she makes plenty of bricks with no clay.”

Later, when they move Sherlock to his place at John’s elbow (a pang of longing echoes briefly in his marrow, for the end of the old story just as it was starting to fit again) and Mycroft seated between Greg and Molly Hooper, Sherlock’s tongue gets stuck in his mouth. 

Mycroft taps her French tipped fingernails against the table in short bursts – _S.O.S_ – to remind him of where he should be. “Telegrams!” he says, startled. “I don’t know why we call them that.”

It starts out as well as he can reasonably expect. He calls on Greg Lestrade, but makes brief eye contact with Mycroft, hoping against the balance of probabilities that she does not know how Bainbridge was almost murdered.  He goes about winding his way through the stories he’s meant to tell, glossing over the bits where he pukes at crime scenes because his sister is present, and knowing she’s filled in those gaps anyways.

She’s quiet during his speech, even when he sees the angle of her head tip into something knowing. It’s frustrating to him, having her be the chairwoman of his mind palace meeting, shouting at him _narrow it down narrow it down_ while she sits in his audience, mouth curled into a mauve-stained smirk.

*

“I need you to get the photographer. He can’t have reached farther than –” Sherlock starts, and Lesstrade shifts awkwardly from one foot to another. “Mycroft.”

“She told me to apprehend him the moment he left,” he admits sheepishly, flushing to the tips of his ears. “My best man is detaining him in the lobby.”

Sherlock barely resists the urge to groan before he discovers that she’s had him detained, but hasn’t explained, leaving that bit for Sherlock to do with a flourish. Surprisingly kind of her, since Sherlock spends so much time paying her back handed compliments and trying to show her up with near-malicious glee.

He decides, in a moment of charity, after the criminals have all been locked away, to let Lestrade in on a little secret: “The love of her life quite fancies you.”

“What!” Lestrade squawks , like a startled macaw.

“And Mycroft does not like to disappoint her.” He leaves George behind him with a hanging jaw.

*

He accidentally deduces the existence of Baby Girl Watson, after he plays their waltz. He’s happy with the way it turned out – it’s been lingering in his corners when he looks at John for a long time. It’s always belonged to John, but now, when it is finally a fully formed thing, it belongs to the both of them.

Mary looks gorgeous. Lilac was the right choice, Sherlock decides, eyes sliding across the dance floor. Everyone is writing in a sickeningly happy mess. Janine seems to have decided to give the programmer a try, Molly and Tom are similarly engaged; even Lestrade has asked Mrs. Hudson if she’d like to go for a spin.

Feeling strangely defeated, Sherlock starts to make his way to the door of the venue, slinging his coat over his shoulders when a hand on his elbow stops him.

“One dance before you leave,” Mycroft insists.

Sherlock is not in the habit of giving in to his sister easily, but she was the only one on his dance card for a long time before he discovered the thrilling crush of anonymous bodies in a public setting. He says: “If you insist,” and takes her hand, in the curve of his own. It is almost larger than his own. Growing up, Sherlock’s one burning goal was to grow up like her: that his bones would lengthen into the size of hers.  

“Anthea is going to spit him out,” Sherlock says, grinning.

“Normal people seem to find it distasteful to talk about physical intimacy with one’s sister,” Mycroft tells him, because she was in charge of keeping track of all the tedious things like that for him.

“I would find it more distasteful to ask you about the political situation in Nepal,” Sherlock scoffs, sweeping her in a graceful curve.

“Heaven forbid someone to ask you to keep track of which countries are and are not monarchies,” she says with a long suffering sigh, but then she grins. “I think it might be fun. The detective is not without merit.”

“He’s fallen out of shape,” Sherlock says, just to be petulant.

“I, for one, think a little heft is reasonable on an adult.”

“I take it back,” Sherlock says, with a playful groan. “Even my formidable brain cannot withstand the assault of you saying _heft._ ”

Mycroft, merciless, grins points against her painted lips. “I find it sexy, actually. A little _bulk._ A touch of something soft to get a handful of—”

Sherlock, horrified, maneuvered them to the outskirts of the dance floor. “Gerald!” he yelps, “Mind if you cut in?”

He looks bewildered, as he often does when Sherlock and his sister are involved. Sherlock happens to know, for some cringing reason, that it’s a look that Mycroft finds extraordinarily attractive.

“Ah,” Lestrade says his eyes flicking between the two of them, as if wary of getting entangled in a caustic sibling game. The thought is ludicrous, because he’s already _explained_ it to him. “Do you might if I… cut it?”

Sherlock can barely contain a laugh as his sister visibly contemplates how to discretely step out of her shoes to not tower.

“I would be honored,” Sherlock says without waiting for Mycroft to answer, stepping away and leaning down to scoop up her five inch pumps. And on the way back up, he murmurs, “don’t screw it up.”

Mycroft smiles at him like a shark in a tank of toothless aquatic life. No one else can make him feel like toothless aquatic life quite like his sister. Greg, for his part, doesn’t look at her like he finds her terrifying, which, Sherlock supposes, is not a terrible way to start off a relationship.

He leaves them to it.


End file.
